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University of Montana ScholarWorks at University of Montana Graduate Student Theses, Dissertations, & Professional Papers Graduate School 2017 GROUND FIRES: Essays on Land and Scouting Matthew R. Hart University of Montana Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.umt.edu/etd Part of the Nonfiction Commons Let us know how access to this document benefits ou.y Recommended Citation Hart, Matthew R., "GROUND FIRES: Essays on Land and Scouting" (2017). Graduate Student Theses, Dissertations, & Professional Papers. 10994. https://scholarworks.umt.edu/etd/10994 This Thesis is brought to you for free and open access by the Graduate School at ScholarWorks at University of Montana. It has been accepted for inclusion in Graduate Student Theses, Dissertations, & Professional Papers by an authorized administrator of ScholarWorks at University of Montana. For more information, please contact [email protected]. GROUND FIRES: Essays on Land and Scouting By MATTHEW ROBERT HART BA, Carleton College, Northfield, MN, 2011 Thesis presented in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Science in Environmental Studies The University of Montana Missoula, MT May 2017 Approved by: Scott Whittenburg, Dean of The Graduate School Graduate School Phil Condon, Chair Environmental Studies Dan Spencer Environmental Studies Judy Blunt English Hart, Matthew, MS, Spring 2017 Environmental Studies Ground Fires: Essays on Land and Scouting Chairperson: Phil Condon Abstract: Ground Fires is a collection of creative nonfiction probing the social and environmental complexities that marked the narrator’s long membership in the Boy Scouts of America. I grew up a Scout, part of a quirky, adventurous troop in a New England college town. After earning Eagle and graduating high school, I moved west, working for seven summers and a few more seasons at Philmont Scout Ranch in northern New Mexico. I led backpacking trips through the mountains and high desert, teaching teenagers about land I knew and loved, land that was changing fast. From bears to wildfire to challenging politics, these stories seek the colorful people and places behind a uniquely American institution, in hopes that Scouting might serve as a bright force in shaping the future of our diverse and wild country. ii CONTENTS Prologue /// p. 2 Part I: Self-Reliance Lasting Terrain /// p. 5 Good Turns /// p. 17 Expect the Unexpected /// p. 29 Part II: Reciprocity Inspiration Point /// p. 43 Coexistence Training /// p. 59 The Next Storm /// p. 75 Prologue The storm will not stop. Across western Nebraska and eastern Colorado, rain hammers the windshield of the old green hatchback. The wind howls and lightning shreds the ink sky, turns it purple. West of the state line, I pull off the interstate in Sterling. I park the shuddering car in the back of a rest area, recline the seat, crawl into a sleeping bag. Enough for tonight. I had graduated from college two days earlier. I drove west toward the mountains because I knew nowhere better to go. I went as a Boy Scout, my khaki uniform hanging in the backseat, because that was how I had always gone to the mountains before. Scouting began to frame me when I was six years old. As a Tiger Cub in Western Massachusetts, I visited a dam on the Connecticut River that once powered the paper mills of brick-hewn Holyoke. I stared at the fish ladder, waiting for gray bodies to flail through a tube of yellow water. I lived in a Scouting family. My father and his two brothers were Eagle Scouts. My own two brothers became Tiger Cubs, then Cub Scouts, then Boy Scouts. Our dad, an estates lawyer with an endless backlog, chose Scouting for his few free hours. He served first as cubmaster, then, shortly after I joined the Boy Scouts at age ten, as scoutmaster of Troop 504, the best troop in the universe. My involvement went without question. When I started to look at Scouting for myself, it was already stitched deep into my fabric. My closest friendships came from the Scout troop. My fondest adventures occurred under its 2 auspices. I was marching like a regular along “The Trail to Eagle,” as Scouts affectionately call their rank advancement program. And I wasn’t much for quitting things. In the dying light of November, I’d stay out in the driveway shooting baskets with until I finally made my self- mandate of ten straight free throws. I would stay in Scouts and make Eagle, too. That much had always been obvious. Then, near the end of high school, the relationship turned. Scouting’s role shifted—from a kid’s source of adventure to a searcher’s source of consistency. As I finished off Eagle, I fell in love with a place, and Scouting was how I could get there. The place was Philmont Scout Ranch in northern New Mexico, a sprawling mountain reserve owned by the Boy Scouts of America, the biggest and wildest of summer camps. I had backpacked there for ten days when I was fourteen, then for three weeks when I was seventeen. I would work there leading trips for seven summers. I learned the guts of Scouting as I did: the old-fashioned self-presentation, the hard lines of budgets, and the people behind the khaki uniforms who resisted labels. I learned land, too: high green subalpine and caked-dirt canyons, hungry bears and tough trees. Each year I left in late August and returned to smaller places—the tight island of a Minnesota liberal-arts college, then scattered jobs writing and teaching, mostly seasonal. New Mexico would wallop me around February, the hot smell of ponderosa pine rising from a cup of coffee, cascading me into longing. I didn’t care for the politics in Scouting, but they never managed to repel me as hard as the place and the people who knew it drew me. At dawn the westward passage resumes. I stop under slate skies for gas and coffee in Brush, Colorado. At 6:30 in the morning I can already taste blowing dirt. The clouds burn off and I turn south onto an empty and blue Highway 71, splitting the sea of plains, racing. The 3 music is loud and the grass on either side of the car turns from gray-green to parched brown by the time I reach La Junta. Somewhere in the ponderosa pines near Raton Pass—the Colorado-New Mexico border, 7,800 feet above the sea—a wildfire started last night. I roll down the windows in Trinidad, on Colorado’s side of the pass, and the air is acrid, thickening with smoke and ash. Signs and squad cars, hastily assembled, announce that the pass is closed. There’s no time to learn more. I’m supposed to report for a summer of work, starting that afternoon. A hundred-mile detour east plunges my gas gauge perilously low as I cross the state line at Negro Mesa and wind through the sage and low mountains of New Mexico’s northeast corner. Finally, I turn back west, then south, and the sun-drenched skyline appears. Omens be damned—after a thousand miles, it is the most beautiful sight on Earth. The summits stand hazy in the heat, shoulder to broad shoulder like siblings. Black Mountain and Bear Mountain, Cito Peak and Shaefer’s, Touch-Me-Not and Baldy. They form the Cimarron Range of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, the easternmost flank of the Southern Rockies, the backbone of the enchanting land I have come to know. 4 Part I: Self-Reliance Lasting Terrain The Pelham Hills rise in plum swells through the big east windows of the church. In November, in New England, the bare branches of oaks and maples frame a muted ridge five miles away. I stand in a pew next to my father, small and straight in my khaki Scout uniform, staring out at the hills. Today is Scout Sunday, the day of the year when our troop leads worship, and Dad’s square shoulders rise above mine to fill his own uniform. His iron baritone sings the third verse of the old hymn: Before the hills in order stood or Earth received her frame, from everlasting thou art God to endless years the same. Dad was always next to me on those Sundays spent staring at the hills from our second- story sanctuary. After my own voice dropped, we’d move together from the melody to the bass line during the last verse of a hymn, when the words in the hymnal were close enough to the bottom clef to read both at the same time. I focused less on the lyrics than on sight-reading the harmony, listening always for Dad’s voice and trying to match its tone. My mom was often there too, and my ears would catch lilts of her soft soprano above Dad’s ring. There were days when she left the congregation, however, their frequency growing as I did. On one of them, we are singing an old hymn from a new book, the United Church of Christ’s black New Century Hymnal that now sits beside the old faded-red Pilgrim Hymnal. My two brothers are off to college by now and I am left standing between my parents as tradition breaks. I realize as we sing that the new book has tweaked the lyrics, turned God our King into a 5 genderless God our Friend. Mom notices the revision too, and it shatters the spell of song, strips heritage from the hymn. She closes the book and quietly walks from the sanctuary, bound for the car and a drive to the next town over, where she can pull off beside a cornfield and feel earth beneath her again.

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